


The Curse of Obedience

by TristansGirl



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you can't say no?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is not a Love Song

It starts on a cold, wet December day in the middle of the tour.

It is just the band, a bunch of guys gathered together, enjoying being foulmouthed and raunchy without women nearby to roll their eyes and cluck their tongues.

They sit around the bus and joke and tease each other mercilessly, going for the jugular in ways that only people who spend far too much time together can do.

At one point, Frank says something to Gerard that causes Gerard to flip him off, laugh and tell him to shut the fuck up.

And Frank does.

And it begins.

Frank tries to speak, his lips forming his retort, but no sound issues forth. He clears his throat and tries again with the same results. He bends over and places his hand on his throat, still trying to speak, still producing nothing but a wisp of air.

“Frank? You ok?”

He looks up, the fear blazing in his eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

He can’t answer so he shakes his head and slaps his hand against his throat, hoping that the gesture will convey the fact that he has been struck mute.

There are hands on him now; gentle. “Are you choking?”

No. No. He can’t make them understand. Terrified, he stumbles backward, unaware that his hand is clutching his throat so tightly that his nails are leaving indents in his flesh.

“Frank, come on say something.”

He opens his mouth and says, “Something.”

They all stop and move away, mouths opening and closing almost obscenely as they themselves struggle to form words.

“That wasn’t funny.”

“Yeah, asshole, you scared us.”

His legs give out and he falls to the sofa. His heart, which had been thundering within his chest, has already started to slow. “I wasn’t joking,” he says.

But they don’t believe him and their earlier moment, raucous and carefree, is gone.

Two days pass and the incident is forgotten. At least as much as it can be. While everyone else has gone to bed, Frank sits with Bob, watching television in his hotel room. It’s rare that they get the luxury of a room and they are bound and determined to take advantage of it.

After a time, Bob turns to Frank and says, “Hey, get me another beer from the minibar, huh?”

He knows Frank will not do it. He knows that Frank will likely flip him off and that they will both laugh.

Frank too knows that he will not do it.

And yet he finds himself standing, because suddenly it is vitally important that he do what Bob says.

He tries to stop his legs from moving, trying to dig his feet into the carpet, but they will not respond. A prisoner in his own body, he walks to the fridge, pulls out the beer and hands it to Bob before finally sitting back down.

Bob stares at the bottle in his hand as if he’s not really sure it exists. “I didn’t expect you to do it.”

The same clutching fear that Frank experienced two days ago is back. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to, but I couldn’t stop it.”

“Frank, I’m sorry, man, but if this is a joke, I’m not getting it.”

“It’s not a joke. It’s not a joke at all. I had to do what you told me to. Just like the other night when Gerard told me to shut-” His voice cuts off as if someone had sliced through his vocal chords.

“Frank?”

“Bob, tell me to do something,” he says. There is a seed of an idea in his head, germinating wildly. He thinks that he is beginning to understand. “Tell me to do something and I’ll try really hard not to do it.”

Bob shrugs, not entirely certain that his friend is sane, but willing to humor him anyway. He tells Frank to stand on his head.

And Frank, after a valiant but ultimately futile struggle with his own body, does just that. When he falls over only seconds later, he stares up at Bob.

Now he understands.

“Bob, I think I got a real problem here.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nobody else thinks it’s a problem. In fact, they take great pleasure in testing out the boundaries of what they consider a fun, new game.

Frank tolerates it as best he can for as long as he can, but after a few days, he finds the game cruel, his friends cold, and all he wants to do is get home so he can find out why he is compelled to do what people say.

Darkness falls and he avoids everyone as he slips into his bunk on the bus, intent on finding sleep.

Sleep comes, but his dreams are uneasy and he finds no rest in them, so he forces himself back into the waking world. Yet as his eyes flutter open, he finds that the nightmare has followed him.

A nightmare made of shadow. It is straddling him, its hand over his mouth. It is whispering to him.

“Close your eyes. Don’t make a sound. Don’t struggle.”

And although every fiber of his being wants to shout and push this person off of him, he does not. He cannot.

There is only one thing he can do. He obeys.

Shadow Man pulls his hand away from Frank’s mouth before sliding it into the strands of his hair.

Inside, Frank is seething. Whatever the joke is now, it is being taken too far. He tells himself that when this is over, whatever this is, he is going to kill someone. He feels he may kill them all, regardless of who is actually sitting on him, yanking on his hair so hard that his head tilts back until his neck aches.

It doesn’t occur to him to be afraid. Not until the hand moves away from his hair, not until it trails down his throat and slips under the t-shirt he is wearing. Not until it brushes against his nipple before pinching it hard.

“This will not be over quickly. You will not enjoy this.”

Frank recognizes the quote and he takes a brief moment to wonder which one of them has been watching The 300 before his entire world shatters like fragile glass.

Shadow Man was right. It does not end quickly.

And he does not enjoy it.

It is misery personified, the scraping of his insides, the fingers that seek to dig into his skin, the searing breath under his ear. He allows himself to cry, his tears slipping past his closed eyelids, mostly because it is the only thing that he can do. When everything else has been taken away from him, he weeps his anger and frustration and helplessness.

Shadow Man digs his teeth into Frank’s skin and finally finishes with a long, lazy groan. Then he slides out of Frank’s body, pulling away before rearranging both of their clothing.

“Don’t lie to me,” Shadow Man whispers from somewhere above him. “Do you know who I am? Nod your head for yes. Shake your head for no.”

Frank knows that if he really concentrated, he could probably figure out who Shadow Man is. He has lived with these men for six years. He knows their hands, their touch. He knows every cadence of their voices.

But he’s not sure that he wants to know. He’s not sure that he wants to know who hates him this much. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. And sometimes it’s a life-preserver.

He shakes his head.

“Yes, good,” Shadow Man breathes out before dismounting from his shivering body as if he were an animal. Then he takes a blanket and draws it up to Frank’s chin, taking a moment to rake gentle fingers through his hair. The considerate gestures baffle Frank as much as they anger him.

Because how dare he? How dare Shadow Man be kind now? After what he has just done, any tender gesture is a mockery; a perverted, twisted lie.

Shadow Man disentangles fingers from his hair and Frank has a brief moment to wonder what will happen tomorrow when he has to face them all, when he has to look them all in the eye and try to imagine who did this, try to determine behind whose face hides a monster.

And then Shadow Man whispers one last command, ending it all, at least until the morning.

“Sleep.”


	2. A Different Kind of Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a Love Song from Shadow Man's POV

He finds it ironic at first. Deliciously so.

Ironic that Frank, the poster child for no self-control, has been struck with the inability to refuse even the smallest command.

It becomes a game, forcing Frank to do things that he doesn’t want to do. And maybe it shouldn’t be fun, but fun is exactly what it becomes. After the countless times that Frank has hurt them all, on stage and off and never an apology in sight, after all those times . . . well, to say that revenge is sweet might be a bit of an understatement.

A couple of days pass before his thoughts begin to twist and wind down a darker path than that of petty revenge.

Because really, Frank is just so pliant. So malleable.

So helpless.

It matters hardly at all that Frank is so very pretty. That’s a bonus, but it is not the fuel for this particular fire.

He has never thought of himself as this kind of person. It is disconcerting. He feels that he should be ashamed. And he is - a little. But not much.

Because maybe, just maybe, Frank deserves whatever he has to give.

He decides to wait, giving himself time to see if these urges will subside.

And soon after, he begins to plan.

It will have to happen at night, he will have to whisper, he must not allow Frank to see. So many things to consider. But he has to consider them all. It has to be done just right.

He is cognizant of all of these things as he climbs into Frank’s bunk, carefully drawing the curtain closed behind him.

It is dark enough that all he manages to see is the bare outline of Frank’s body. Even so he can tell that Frank is lying peacefully on his side, his body curled up, small in sleep. He nudges Frank over onto his back, then straddles him, placing one hand over his mouth to stifle any unwanted noise.

He can feel the moment that Frank wakes - can feel the tension locking up his body, can hear the startled intake of breath. He leans forward and whispers the necessary commands.

“Close your eyes. Don’t make a sound. Don’t struggle.”

And here he pauses, frozen by an unexpected moment of indecision. Because this...this act is momentous and what he is about to do he can never undo. His mind is still stuck when his hand moves, almost of its own accord, slipping underneath Frank’s t-shirt, fingers seeking and twisting. The slight hitch of breath beneath him goes straight to his groin, jump-starting his pulse. The moment of indecision is over as logical thought gives way to hunger and need.

“This will not be over quickly. You will not enjoy this.”

The lines, from a movie seen not too long ago, pop into his head and he whispers them. He likes the sound of them as they fall from his lips.

He begins, begins to enter, begins to move and it is . . . amazing. A thousand times better than his imagination had told him it would be. It’s not even the sex itself - the rough friction and the trembling heat. It is the power. It is the rush, electric and consuming, that he’s receiving from this act that nothing, not even being on-stage before thousands of screaming, worshiping fans, can equal.

Despite his promise threat? to Frank, he keeps it short. He has to, the fear of being caught keeps him prudent. He allows it to end, releasing with a groan, sinking his teeth into tender flesh, marking what will now forever be his.

He pulls away, but not before he feels wetness against his face. Tears. Not his own. Frank was crying. Underneath him, this entire time. He didn’t notice. If he had noticed he’s not sure that he would have cared.

But he cares now. Enough to feel some sense of remorse. Not strong, not overwhelming, but it is there, gnawing at the edges of him, making him feel uneasy. Because after all, this is Frank. He loves Frank, they all do.

“Do you know who I am?”

He asks the question, then holds his breath for the answer. He already knows what he will do if the answer is yes. He prays that it won't be. His eyes have long-adjusted to the dark and he can easily see the negation, the quick, almost violent shake of Frank’s head.

“Yes, good,” he whispers. He climbs off, moving next to Frank, and with tenderness and care, because this is still Frank and he loves Frank, they all do, he rakes his fingers through Frank’s hair and pulls the covers up to his chin.

“Sleep.”

It is the last command that he will give him tonight.

He slips away to his bunk and in his own curtained darkness he relives it, relives what he has just done.

It was wrong, he knows that. Logically he knows. And as that small bit of remorse twirls and twists in his gut, he thinks back to what caused him to do this in the first place.

He’d been angry. At Frank.

Hadn’t he?

Hadn’t Frank deserved this?

And in the midst of this confusion he remembers how good it felt - the taking, the claiming.

And the confusion clears and he thinks that maybe, next time, he would like to see Frank’s face, would like his eyes open. Next time. Maybe.

And in the dark, he smiles just a little.


	3. The Centre Cannot Hold

Mikey sits at one of the picnic tables at the rest stop and watches his brother come toward him. He can tell, just by the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his gait, that he wants to talk. Not just talk, but _talk_.

He squares his own shoulders as Gerard reaches him and sits down on the opposite side of the table.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Gerard pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, tilting it toward him, an invitation. “You want?”

“No, man. I’m good.”

Gerard gives a half-shrug and pulls one out, popping it into his mouth and lighting it with well-practiced ease. His eyes dart about as he does it, as if making certain that they are alone. “So,” he says.

“So,” Mikey counters, silently wondering when he’s going to get to it. Gerard is well known for taking his time to reach the point of a conversation.

But apparently, Gerard isn’t in the mood to drag things out today. “Listen, Mikey, I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth. Like, look me in the eyes and tell me the truth.”

“Okay . . . ”

“All right.” Gerard nods and takes a deep breath. “Um . . . I need to know if you did something to Frank.”

Mikey shrinks back from the question, the accusation in it. He says, “What?” in his most indignant voice.

Gerard looks around quickly before bringing his attention back to him. He looks a little unsure now, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing on. “Did you hurt him somehow? Go too far with something?”

It would be very easy to panic, to stumble and make a damning mistake, but Mikey reminds himself that Gerard doesn’t know anything. If he did, he would not be sitting here fishing.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this.”

“Mikes, just . . . just tell me you didn’t.”

“Why would you even think I did?”

“It’s just that . . . there’s something really wrong with Frank.”

“You mean besides the fact that he has to obey everyone like a fucking puppet?”

“It’s not that. Haven’t you noticed? He barely looks at any of us. He doesn’t eat. I know he doesn’t sleep. He’s been playing like shit, fucking up at shows left and right. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Again, why do you think it was something I did? I mean, we’ve all messed with him. I seem to remember you making him sing Britney Spears. And give you that hour-long foot rub.”

Gerard drops his gaze, having the grace to look ashamed. “I know. We’ve all been assholes. But all that’s kid stuff. I’m talking about something worse.”

“And again, why would you think that I . . . ” He lets the sentence trail off as a thought enters his head. A memory. One that he’d almost completely buried. “Wait a minute. Does this have to do with what happened with Adrienne?”

Gerard lifts his eyes, the look in them somehow both pointed and guilty.

“Jesus, Gerard! That was a million years ago!”

Gerard takes a long drag off of his cigarette and says nothing. The silence cuts him worse than a hundred harsh words.

“You know what - this is bullshit. I’m out of here.” He stands, making to leave when a surprisingly strong hand wraps around his wrist. He stops, looks down. “Let go.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Shit, Gerard, I’m your brother!”

“You haven’t answered it. You’re going round and round with it, but you won’t answer it.”

He makes a move to pull away, but Gerard’s hand only tightens, keeping him in place. He didn’t even know his brother was this strong. “This is bullshit.”

“Answer it,” Gerard says in a voice that’s both iron and steel.

“Gerard–”

“Answer the fucking question!” Gerard shouts, raw and anguished and angry.

“No!” he says, and now he’s shouting right back, low, into his brother’s face. “Ok? No! I didn’t do anything to him! I love Frank! I would never hurt him!”

The grip around his wrist slowly loosens until it falls away.

“Ok,” Gerard breathes out. “Ok. I’m sorry. I just had to hear it.”

He snatches his arm back. He imagines he can feel the bruises already forming. “Are you happy now? Satisfied?”

“I’m sorry, Mikey. I just had to–”

“Fuck you, Gerard. Just . . . fuck you,” he says, spitting out the words with as much venom as he can muster. Then he stalks away, his adrenaline pumping through him so fast he feels like his body is going to shake apart.

He can hear Gerard calling after him, but he gives no indication that he’s even heard, instead continuing blindly forward. He feels angry and betrayed. And frightened.

Frightened because Gerard was so close.

He has to remind himself that Gerard doesn’t know. It was a wild shot in the dark. He doesn’t know what he did. He doesn’t what he and Frank shared. It was a guess, a fucking brilliant one, but a guess just the same.

But even so, he is still fuming, still walking much too fast, not even looking to see where he’s headed when he crashes into something solid.

Someone solid.

He rears back, ready to apologize to whomever it is when the words die on his lips.

It is Frank, looking small and awkward and vulnerable. The same way he's looked ever since that night.

He forces himself to speak, to sound natural. Normal. “Frank, I’m sorry man. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It’s ok.” Frank’s voice is dim, muted, and he hugs his arms across his body as if he were very cold.

“Are you ok?” he asks, even though he knows good and well that Frank is not.

“Yeah. No.” Frank places trembling fingers against his forehead, squinting against the sun as he looks up. “I’m just tired. I’m gonna head back to the bus.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

As he watches Frank nod it occurs to him, almost in a detached sort of way, that he’s the one who did this to him. He’s the one who turned Frank into this frightened, sad creature. And he thinks, as he has a thousand times since that night, that he is not this type of person. He isn’t. The incident with Adrienne was forever ago and it was never repeated.

Ever.

And now there’s this. And a part of him really hates that he is the one to have done this - that he is the one responsible for this metamorphosis.

And still it takes everything he has not to reach out and trail his fingers along the contours of Frank’s body as he moves past.

He turns, catches Gerard’s watchful eye, even from so far away. He mutters, “Fuck you, Gerard,” under his breath and determinedly walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Point**

He watches.

He feels a little like a cat in the weeds, watching his prey. Unseen and unnoticed until it’s too late.

But it’s not just Frank. He watches all of them.

He watches them wallow in their confusion, wondering why the hell Frank is suddenly acting so normal when for so long he was the very picture of misery.

He watches Gerard. The way his accusation eats at him. The guilt. Enough of it so that Gerard can’t quite meet his eyes.

He watches them all. The bus drivers, the techs, the roadies. Watches them all trying to understand, trying to make sense of an Alice in Wonderland situation.

Mostly though, he watches Frank.

Frank is back to normal. Or at least, he acts like he is. He’s back to being funny and hyperactive. A little crazy. A little dangerous. He is their Frankie again.

And no one has any idea.

He’s gotten away with it. He’s done a bad thing, crossed a line, and no one is the wiser. He should walk away from it. Count it a victory, preserve the memory and move on.

But he doesn’t want to. Not just yet. He needs again. One more time. One more time and he’ll be satisfied. One more time and he can walk away.

He can make him forget. Frank will never know it happened. And he isn’t really hurting him if it never happened.

Right?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
 **Counterpoint**

He lies in bed, the hotel so very still around him. His body is exhausted, worn down from night after night of giving everything he has in concert after concert. His mind however, is restless.

He remembers the curse; remembers having to obey. He remembers discovering it one night in a hotel room with Bob. He remembers his friends using it - making him do silly, humiliating things. He remembers being fed up with it, annoyance growing into frustration. Frustration growing into anger.

He remembers all of that.

And then . . . nothing.

Nothing, save for a disquieting feeling of something being very wrong. Of something very bad having happened.

The feeling is compounded by the fact that nearly everyone on tour has come to him asking him if he’s better now, asking what was wrong, telling him that they’re glad to see him back to his usual self.

He doesn’t know how to respond to those questions, those comments. He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t remember. For some reason that he can’t quite pinpoint, he feels that admitting that would be a weakness. And he doesn’t want to feel weak. Memory fails him but instinct doesn’t and his instinct tells him that he’s had enough of that lately.

He sighs and turns over, willing his mind to shut down. Whatever is going on with him is always on the periphery of his consciousness, an insubstantial ghost flitting through dense forest, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot bring it to the forefront.

Maybe tomorrow.

This is what he tells himself as he burrows deeper into the covers. Tomorrow he’ll find some time to be alone. To think. To remember.

He slips into sleep as his mind finally stills. A peaceful sleep. Necessary and needed.

Until the sound of persistent knocking invades his dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
 **Dissolvement**

 

Another stay at a hotel.

Another opportunity he cannot pass up.

It’s not as if he hasn’t tried though. He has. He’s done everything short of tying himself to the bed to stop himself from coming here.

Watching tv hasn’t helped. Talking to Alicia hasn’t helped. Drinking himself into a stupor hasn't helped.

In the end, all the effort is rendered completely futile. Because he is here, his knuckles rapping hard against the hotel door.

And he is so fucking hungry.

Eventually the door opens to reveal Frank, dressed in only pajama bottoms and rubbing his eyes against the intrusion of light. The scene touches something deep in Mikey’s heart, and he imagines that he can feel it jump a little in his chest.

He likes to think that this is proof that he is not a monster after all.

“Mikey? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just needed to talk to you for a minute.”

Frank scrunches up his face and nods, and it’s easy to see that his brain is still sleep-fogged, trying to catch up to reality.

“Can I come in?”

Frank nods again, more vigorously this time, already more alert.

They move inside, Frank perching on the edge of the bed while Mikey takes a chair.

“There’s something really important that I need to talk to you about,” he says. “You need to listen closely.”

Frank leans forward. There’s an intensity about him that’s a little unnerving, maybe because it’s hard to tell if that’s him or the curse. “Ok.”

“Remember it. What I told you to forget. Remember what happened the other night in your bunk. Now.”

And just like that it happens. Mikey feels a bit like a magician; one abracadabra and Frank is shrinking back, his eyes widening, his head shaking back and forth so hard Mikey is certain he’ll give himself whiplash.

“No. No. No.” Frank is chanting the word like a prayer, as if that alone will save him from what is coming.

Mikey moves forward and grabs his arm, anchoring him. “Lie down.”

And Frank does. Falling onto his back, his eyes too wide, his breath coming too fast.

“I’m going to let you talk, but nothing above a whisper, ok? Don’t speak above a whisper.”

And because Mikey has commanded it, it is a whisper that falls from Frank’s lips. “Mikey, please. Not you.”

Mikey nods, placing a finger against those lips, so soft. “I know. I know. I want you to know that I never meant for this to happen. This isn’t what I intended.”

“You hurt me.”

Mikey tries to sound soothing. He doesn’t want to make this all bad. That is not his intention. That was never his intention. “It won’t hurt as much this time,” he says. And he can see it, the moment that Frank understands.

 _This time._

 _Next time._

 _Forever._

“Please . . . oh God. Please, don't.”

He doesn't mind the begging. On the contrary, he finds that he quite likes it. He forces himself to shut out Frank’s incoherent pleas and focus. He knows that he has all night, and yet he feels as though the time is already slipping away from him. He feels as though he has to hurry.

“Take off your pants for me. Your underwear. Toss them to the side.”

“No.” Frank whispers it even as he moves. He’s shaking his head, arms trembling as he struggles to disobey.

So useless. The clothes drop silently to the floor in a messy heap.

“I want you to put your arms up above your head. Yes. Just like that. You’re going to be my doll. My pliant, little doll. So sweet. You can be sweet sometimes, can’t you?” He runs his fingers against the stubble of Frank’s cheek. “Can’t you?”

There is no answer. The half-choked sounds that Frank is making do not count.

“Answer yes, Frank.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, Frankie,” he says, trying for soothing again when really all he feels is triumphant. “By tomorrow, you won’t remember a thing. I promise.”


End file.
